


On the Side of the Angels

by ScatteredMuse



Category: Samaria - Sharon Shinn, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angels, M/M, Winglock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScatteredMuse/pseuds/ScatteredMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every 20 years, a new Archangel is chosen to lead the world of Samaria. Mycroft is nearing the end of his term and when he finds that Sherlock is the next nominee, he's less than thrilled. John finds his life thrown into the mix and when he meets Sherlock, things are changed forever. When someone reveals they know the truth about the god and strange, old technology keeps appearing across the land, it's up to Sherlock and John to find out who's behind it all and to weather the storm together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of a touchy universe to play around in as it can come across as religious. Please note I have no intention of pushing or disparaging any religious views. I just really like the world created by Sharon Shinn and certain things that come along with it! If you’re familiar with the series, my story doesn’t really take place anywhere that would fit within the canon timeline, though it fits best around _Archangel_.
> 
> All my love to my BFF [Hsuany](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hsuany) for beta-ing. <3
> 
> [Map of Samaria for location/distance references](http://i.imgur.com/i6TWCKO.jpg) \- photo taken off _Angelica_ by Sharon Shinn, cleaned up by Hsuany.

“Sherlock, son of the man Siger and the angel Victoria.”  
  
Mycroft froze and stared down at Anthea sitting before the interface. “Could you repeat that?”

“The next Archangel is to be Sherlock, son of the man Siger and the angel Victoria,” she read again, fingers tapping across the on-screen keyboard lightly. “Born in the Eyrie in Bethel.”  
  
A long-suffering sigh came from the angel standing beside her, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose. This must be some sort of terrible joke from the god as punishment for knowing the truth. But he’d kept the secret, had he not? He’d been a good Archangel for the past 15 years, had he not? What could he have possibly done to deserve what was bound to be a very exhausting end to his 20-year term, schooling Sherlock to lead all of Samaria? And it would have to be him because no one else was going to do it and he had no desire to see the world destroyed in a blaze of righteous lightning.  
  
And the man was his younger brother, after all.  
  
Mycroft had led the host at the Eyrie years before his own nomination as Archangel had been announced by the oracle at Mount Sinai; years before that, he and Sherlock had only been boys, creeping into this very chamber of the mountain where the oracles spoke to Jovah through a glowing glass screen embedded in the rock wall while their parents held a meeting in another wing. They’d eagerly put their fingers to the screen, naming themselves to Jovah - the language used was normally only reserved for the oracles but they’d found a book hidden deep in a cellar the previous summer and deciphered the letters together. Sherlock had tried a phrase he’d seen in the book - _teleport_ \- and after being surrounded by golden light, they’d found themselves surrounded by strange lights and white panels.  
  
They’d spoken to Jovah and the world they knew fell apart. Jovah was the spaceship _Jehovah_ , the computerized voice told them, a colony ship from a distant planet that had chosen Samaria as an adequate location to repopulate. Angels were biologically and genetically modified humans whose “miracles” were nothing more than the spaceship responding to certain requests via its vast storage of food or weather-altering capabilities.  
  
Anyone else would have been devastated by the knowledge, but they were different. At the time, Mycroft remembered the story of an oracle who’d returned babbling incoherently after coming across the very same teleportation command. He’d written down many things but any trace of those writings had been locked away, presumably because the information there would have caused a huge upset to the balance in the world. It was this knowledge that made him ask Sherlock to make a promise, a promise to never reveal the truth to the public.  
  
Sherlock kept that promise but, as he grew up, opted not to participate in performing the services angels had built their life around - lifting their voices to Jovah in song to request respite from plague, drought and flood. Instead he turned to books to fill his increasingly brilliant mind and when the angel Greg Lestrade from Monteverde started a force to handle various crimes throughout the provinces, Sherlock inserted himself neatly into the cases that interested him, bypassing the courtesy of asking for permission. He would rattle off deductions without missing a beat, pulling several mysterious circumstances into the light of day, solving any crimes he encountered.  
  
Some labelled his skills as a blessing from Jovah at first but when that sharp intellect would turn on them, they retreated out of fear of having their secrets spilled to the world, innocent or not. In the end, people observed him at a distance.  
  
Mycroft, on the other hand, chose to continue life as it had always been, especially after he’d learned of his impending role as Archangel. Better to keep the people in the dark and happy, believing their god answered the prayers of their beloved angels. It made it easier to keep the peace and the harmony at the Gloria every year if they had something to fear.

He and Sherlock had argued about it once, and only once, the night before the annual Gloria where he would emerge as the new Archangel.

“Sherlock, you need to pull your weight or the others will start to resent you.”

“They already resent me.”

“Then maybe you should start working towards fixing that,” Mycroft had said flatly.

His younger brother had pressed his lips together into an unhappy line. “What for? The others do the job just as well without me. I see no point in singing to a ship in the sky when you can just as easily type a command into the interface at Sinai and get an equal response.”

“You know we need to keep everyone in the dark about that.”

“Ah, yes. For the greater good. Lest we traumatize all of Samaria and leave havoc in our wake.”

 “That could very well happen if the truth were to be spilled in such a careless manner. The Jansai, Manadavvi, Edori – do you think this tentative balance that stands among them will remain if they knew there was no god to rain vengeance? It can barely be categorized as a balance given all the problems that exist.”

“They act of their own accord even with the fear of Jovah. If they didn’t, there would be no need for Lestrade’s force or my help. The bigger problems are none of my concern anyway.”

“No, but they will soon be mine!” He’d snapped. Taking a deep breath, he’d settled the wings on his back. “Sherlock, I ask of you-”

Sherlock’s eyes had blazed. “You are asking me to be someone I am not. It may not be a service expected of the angels but I am performing a service for Samaria with the skills I was given. Do not ask me to loft pretty words into the sky to improve people’s opinions of me as your next 20 years will be doing enough of that for the both of us.”

That had been 15 years ago. They’d both settled into their roles and Sherlock had become less volatile, even performing the odd weather request approximately once a month when he was plagued with boredom, having no experiments or cases to work on.

It was still a very long way from being someone fit to be Archangel.

“Angelo?”

Mycroft raised his eyes to see Anthea watching him patiently. He smiled faintly and shook his head. “Just feeling a little overwhelmed at the prospect of Sherlock being the next Archangel. Our work is cut out for us.”

She merely nodded, her expression showing that she understood completely. And why shouldn’t she? She was his angelica.

The starship _Jehovah_ not only chose the Archangel but their bride or husband as well. Their partner was meant to complement them, to know things they did not and to have skills they did not. Anthea was one of only three oracles, one for each province of Samaria: one at Mount Sudan in Gaza, one at Mount Sinai in Bethel, and one at Mount Egypt in Jordana. Apart from himself and Sherlock, the oracles were the only people to know the truth about Jovah, the knowledge being passed on from one oracle to the next over the years. Not having to hide what he knew certainly made their working relationship much easier; she was also brutally efficient at filtering duties to the other angels, leaving only those of the utmost importance for his attention.

They’d married, as tradition required, but they’d seemed to come to a mutual agreement that there would be no romantic attachment – it was a marriage of convenience. They’d developed a friendship and a certain fondness existed between them, causing comforting warmth to glow from the Kiss embedded in their arms. It was nothing like the fireworks fabled to occur between Archangels and angelicas or angelicos of the past, but it was enough for them.

The Kiss of the God was a small, acorn-sized amber stone implanted into the right arm of nearly every soul on Samaria, grafted straight to the bone. Typically done at birth, sometimes later in life by choice, it was said that Jovah acknowledged all of his children through the stone, giving him a way to watch over them. In reality, it was just a way for _Jehovah_ to track the progression of genetics and other census statistics.

The romantics claimed it would spark upon meeting one’s true love. Mycroft was far too jaded to believe in any of that.

But it did make him wonder which poor girl had been chosen to complement Sherlock.

“Anthea, find out who his angelica is, will you? I have a feeling we’ll be needing these next five years just to convince her to stay,” Mycroft said, bending to peer at the screen as Anthea typed the request.

Her query disappeared as it was transmitted and a moment later, text blinked onto the interface. Mycroft and Anthea both stared at the response with equally baffled expressions.

“How curious, angelo,” she said, sitting back in her chair.

“That may be an understatement,” he replied.

\---

Sherlock sat at the table of his self-converted lab at the Eyrie, carefully examining the herbs laid out before him. His bedroom opened into a sitting area meant for entertaining guests, but as he rarely had visitors, he’d taken the liberty of setting up tables and shelves and a cooling unit for his experiments. The cooling unit was particularly clever, he couldn’t help thinking with a touch of pride, as it involved diverting some of the cold water that flowed through the pipes in the bathroom.

The door chime rang and he ignored it, picking up one of his carefully carved pieces of glass to magnify the tangled roots of one of the plants. After a moment, the door opened anyway and Mrs. Hudson walked inside with a mug of tea. Angels tended to only carry a given name while with the humans it varied on their social status and tradition, but to Sherlock and everyone else, she would always simply be Mrs. Hudson.

“Sherlock, the mess you’ve made,” she said, her tone distressed. “Have you eaten at all today? I’ve brought you some tea.”

“Thank you.”

Stepping carefully around the piles of books and the edges of his wings pooled on the floor behind his chair, she set the mug down on an empty area of the table and smiled fondly at him. “You’re welcome, dear.”

Mrs. Hudson had often babysat him and Mycroft when they were younger and prone to get into trouble. When their mother had died, she’d decided to take on the role as their motherly figure despite both of them being in their mid-twenties. She was one of the few people he would tolerate when he wasn’t busy.

“I’m having one of the angels take me down to Velora this afternoon for some shopping. Did you want to come along?”

Sherlock said nothing, picking up one of the herbs to hold it against the light from the window.

“I’ll bring you back something tasty from the market.” She patted him on the cheek affectionately and headed back towards the door. “Make sure you drink that tea.”

Blessed silence filled the room again in her absence but silence was a relative term when at the Eyrie. The Eyrie was one of three locations in Samaria that housed a host of angels and was carved into the Velo Mountains, high above the ground where the city of Velora nestled at its base. At all hours of the day there was a group of angels crooning songs overhead, filling the rooms and halls with soothing music. They would sing in shifts, swapping angels in and out so there was never a break in the voices. Sherlock had long since filtered it into background noise when he was trying to concentrate.

Sherlock thought very little of social gatherings. They were often so boring he would take to analyzing his surroundings out loud which always resulted in offended murmurs and false excuses to leave. The only time people listened to him properly was on the crime scenes and even then it was only Lestrade who was smart enough to _actually_ listen to him. It didn’t matter whether they were angel or human, most people were so vacant.

Two hours had passed before his door chime sounded again, the tea on the table long forgotten and cold, and the door promptly opened before the sound had even faded. Sherlock gave a cursory glance over the angel before focusing back onto his experiment.

“I take it the visit to the oracle didn’t go as expected,” he said.

“You could say that,” Mycroft replied, clasping his hands behind his back. “May we talk?”

Pushing back from the table, Sherlock rose to his feet to stand before his brother. Though they were related, they hardly looked similar at first glance – interacting with them, on the other hand, made their family resemblance all too clear. Mycroft had the dark red hair of their father, Sherlock had the black hair of their mother, often in an organized mess of curls atop his head. Mycroft was reasonably fit, though he’d gained a bit of weight over the past few years, and Sherlock was all long, slim lines from flying to cases all over the continent and his tendency to forgo eating. His brother’s wings reflected his hair colour, the white feathers freckled with spots of auburn, but his own were nothing but pure white, a rarity among angels.

Even rarer was that their mother had birthed two angel children. The success rate of birthing an angel child versus a normal human was so low that any angel child was typically celebrated by the entire host.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered over Mycroft, picking facts out of the subtleties. He’d arrived back from Mount Sinai not even fifteen minutes ago but had taken the time to change out of the flying leathers into his typically formal clothes, so he’d wanted some time to consider his words. He’d obviously gone to find out the next Archangel nominee only it hadn’t been someone he expected, judging by the tense lines of his face and body. If it’d simply been someone Mycroft disliked, there would have been no reason to come to him.

“I’ve been nominated.”

Mycroft didn’t bother to ask how he’d known. “Yes.”

“And if I refuse?”

“This isn’t something you can refuse, Sherlock.”

Sherlock mirrored his brother’s pose, tucking his hands behind his back. “No one else knows the news yet, so there would be no need for damage control of the rumours. You could simply go back and request a new Archangel, claiming I am unfit—” A shifting of weight made him pause. “Ah, you already tried that.”

“Yes, and Jovah insists it must be you,” Mycroft replied, sighing a little. “I don’t presume to understand what factors he uses to choose the Archangels but there must be some reason for it to be you. For the sake of the world, it may be best to simply follow through.”

“The Gloria is meant to be a gathering of all races to assure our so–called god that there is harmony. I highly doubt that will occur when the time comes for me to step onto the Plain of Sharon and claim my role, given my current popularity.”

Mycroft brought his hands forward into a helpless gesture, the feathers of his wings whispering as he shrugged. “A lot can change in five years.”

A dark eyebrow raised sceptically in response. “Forgive me for doubting your abilities, brother, but I don’t think even the Archangel can change enough to make this work.” He frowned a little, nose scrunching in thought. “It’s also highly unusual for two brothers to be nominated in a row.”

“Like I said, I don’t presume to understand the factors used.”

“You will need to deal with people claiming favouritism and influencing the god into this decision,” Sherlock pointed out, lifting his hands to his mouth as if in prayer, his eyes focused on some distant thought.

“Am I to assume this means you will be taking the position?”

Sherlock thought carefully. It was a duty he didn’t particularly want as it involved pandering to a lot of dimwitted people but if _Jehovah_ had calculated some reason for him to be in such a position, he was curious to know what it might be. Mycroft and Anthea hadn’t produced any children so could it possibly be a second attempt at extending their genetic line? Whatever it was, it merited some further investigation.

“It is under consideration.”

“Good.” Mycroft inhaled slowly, holding the breath to give himself a moment as he prepared for the next line of questioning. “Now, Sherlock, there’s the matter of your angelica…”

“Ah, yes, who is she?” he asked idly, still considering the possibilities for his appointment as Archangel.

Sherlock had never put much thought into romance. Love was nothing more than simple chemistry, and dangerously destructive. The women that attempted to gain his attention growing up were mostly vapid, some even using the rare manna spice in the food they cooked for him, believing the tale that it would make any man fall in love with them. It would have been far more useful to let the seed sprout when the root it produced was such an efficient healing salve. And he never ate the food anyway.

He’d written off romance as unnecessary and as of yet, no one had made him consider otherwise. There was one angel, Irene, who’d made Sherlock almost wonder for a little while, but he classified the feelings as mutual respect upon further investigation. Irene was the leader of the host in Monteverde and her intellect was commendable by his own standards.

Realizing that Mycroft still hadn’t spoken, Sherlock refocused and frowned at his brother. “Well?”

“It’s a most unusual situation.”

“Unusual, how? She isn’t dead, as Jovah would have simply assigned a new angelica. She obviously exists as you wouldn’t be struggling to name her otherwise.” He began to pace the floor, a short track back and forth. “Is she some poor farmer’s daughter who knows nothing of what her role will require? Because that’s something you could certainly take care of. I have no interest in playing husband, so you could mention to her that she’s free to ease her feelings elsewhere.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Your angelica isn’t a woman, Sherlock.”

The room was filled with the faint voices of angels singing for a brief moment as Sherlock absorbed that statement, trailing feathers shushing to a halt as he stopped mid-turn.

“I don’t understand.”

“It appears Jovah has decided that rather than an angela, your complementary partner is an angelo,” he said, expression perplexed.

“And who is it?”

“John, son of Hamish and Elizabeth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm definitely taking some liberties with Samaria in order to make it work with Sherlock but I hope I can do both universes justice with what I have planned. :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Map of Samaria for location/distance references](http://i.imgur.com/i6TWCKO.jpg)

The sun had barely kissed the horizon when someone rang Sherlock’s door chime urgently. Most of the other occupants in the Eyrie were still asleep but not him, not when there was so much to think about. Rising to his feet gracefully from his chair, Sherlock swept towards the door – there was only one person who would call on him at this time of day.

An angel leaned against the doorframe, his breath still heaving from an obviously hastened flight.

“Where?”

“Luminaux. Lestrade wants you there as soon as possible.”

“On my way,” Sherlock replied. He glanced over the messenger quickly. “You may as well stay at the Eyrie. In your condition, you wouldn’t be able to make another six hour flight and I have no intention of waiting for you.”

It was one thing he wished Mycroft would reconsider, Sherlock thought as he changed into the flying leathers – vest and pants – and grabbed his pack of magnifying glasses. The form of long-distance communication they had was so primitive, limited to the speed of an angel’s flight. Crimes could run very cold in that time. He’d seen the technology available on _Jehovah_ and could see ways of using it to their advantage but Mycroft had firmly stated that bringing any of that into the world in so abrupt a manner would cause questions he didn’t want to deal with. Of course, that didn’t stop the Archangel from using the spaceship and tracking people through the Kiss in their arm for his own monitoring purposes. Hypocrisy could be so unfair.

And so Sherlock found himself in the air, wings pushing him far above the Eyrie and past the layer of clouds. He’d long since calculated the most efficient way of flying, shaving off a decent amount of time from most flights. On average, the flight to Luminaux would take six hours – he could make it in five. Many angels didn’t like flying quite so high, complaining of the biting cold, but Sherlock aimed for the winds flowing in his favour and where the air was thin.

An angel’s blood was heated, allowing them to fly without fear of freezing. A human, on the other hand, wouldn’t be able to stand such heights for very long.

There was something soothing about flying, about being up in the sky alone with his thoughts. If he still believed there was a god and if he was one to feel sentimental, Sherlock supposed he might have felt that it brought him closer to Jovah, but he didn’t and he wasn’t, so it was nothing more than an appreciation for solitude.

Sherlock tilted his body and headed for the southernmost edge of the continent. Luminaux was a city situated at the tail end of the Galilee River, a body of water that stretched from the very north, where a low range of mountains circled the Plain of Sharon, to the very south, where it ran into the ocean. The river divided the provinces of Bethel and Jordana and the city sat on the west bank, in Bethel.

It was often referred to as “The Blue City”, as its buildings were carved from blue marble or made of wood that was painted a shade of navy. The streets were paved with indigo cobblestones and various monuments were carved from lapis lazuli or turquoise. Flower beds placed around the city were also filled with various types of blue flowers. It was a city for artists, craftsmen and intellectuals. People travelled from all over to browse the wares for sale in the city… which made it even easier to disappear after a murder.

Sherlock turned his thoughts to the case as the wind helped push him along. There had been other murders in a few of the major cities over the past few weeks but Lestrade had opted not to contact him – he’d gained word from the abandoned children on the streets instead, who listened in on conversations in Velora. They’d all seemed to have died in the same manner and this one was likely no different but something must have been unique about this particular murder to warrant calling him out.

The timing between murders was of some consideration as they’d occurred several days apart. An angel could make the trip between cities in a matter of hours, however it didn’t make much sense for them to linger before or after the deed. Angels tended to be a memorable sight to the denizens of the cities. It did, however, coincide with someone travelling by horseback – whether alone or in a caravan was still to be determined as he hadn’t yet had a chance to examine the crime scenes.

The flight was smooth and easy, the sky being mostly clear of clouds, and Sherlock banked to the left to start a slow spiral down, the city glimmering shades of blue in the sunlight. His eyes drifted from the walls and rooftops to the dirt paths, their trails carved into the ground from repeated use. It was nearly noon and the roads were busy, filled with horses and carts and people. He could see an Edori clan camped outside the city walls, their collection of tents a swatch of brown against the green grass. A lone angel stood just outside the gates of the city, head tilted to watch his approach.

Sherlock touched down to the ground with practised ease a short distance away, transferring his remaining momentum into a brisk walk forward. “Lestrade,” he said in greeting to the grey-haired angel.

Born to two humans in a unique situation, he was one of the few angels who carried a surname. Inspector Greg Lestrade, the head of the investigative team, nodded and turned to enter the city. “Sherlock, good of you to come.”

“What’s different about this one?”

“She was a painter from one of the shops here, named Jenna. It looks like she died in the same way that we found the others in Semorrah and Castelana but this one wrote something on the ground,” Lestrade said, weaving between the people crowding the streets. He kept his wings close to his body, away from curious fingers and stomping feet. “Only we can’t read it. It looks like the language used by the oracles to communicate with Jovah and I knew you had some knowledge in that.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his interest rising. A human knowing the divine language was certainly curious. “Do we know her history? She may have been an acolyte at some point who left Sinai to come here.”

“Already asked around and people confirm she was born and raised here, never left the city a day in her life.” He turned down a side street to bypass the central square. “She was always in a lot of pain, and hated heights, so she never even made it to the Glorias.”

Lestrade slowed as they approached a shop with dark blue tiling on the roof, the doorway blocked by two men. His team consisted of a mix of humans and angels, as he felt there was an equal amount of talent to be found in both. Most were tolerable but some made Sherlock question Lestrade’s judge of character.

“Who’s the medical expert?” he asked.

“Anderson.”

Sherlock frowned; Anderson’s intelligence level was arguable, but Lestrade insisted he was good at his job. Normally he would have gone to Molly for her expertise but she was all the way in Monteverde until the end of the month and sending for her would be a poor use of time. “He won’t work with me.”

“Well, there’s no one else,” Lestrade answered with a helpless gesture.

One of the men at the door cleared his throat politely as they stopped in front of him. “Sorry, couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” Mike Stamford said, scratching at his head a little, “but I think I know someone who could help. He works at the medical shop here in Luminaux and is said to be one of the best.”

\---

“John? You have a visitor,” called Sarah from the front room.

John shuffled the papers on his desk into order and reached for his cane, hefting himself to his feet. Sarah was a healer from Castelana who’d travelled down and opened a location here in Luminaux – he’d joined her a few months ago. After his incident, John found he couldn’t travel as easily as before to provide his services, so rather than going to the patients, perhaps letting them come to him was a compromise.

Sarah was smart and a good friend. He’d met her in Castelana years before on one of his extended city stays and they’d spent some time together – even flirted with the beginnings of a relationship after a few nights – but when he left the city, the long gaps between seeing each other cooled the flames to a comfortable friendship. John was glad to know her, especially when she’d welcomed his help with open arms despite his injury making him a little slow.

“Who is it?” he asked, looking up as he limped around the corner. “Mike!”

“Hello, John,” Mike said with a smile, “How’ve you been? How’s Harry?”

“I’ve been doing all right. Don’t know much about Harry, haven’t had any word in weeks since the last letter, but I imagine everything’s fine. What brings you here? Don’t have any injuries, do you?”

“No, but-” he glanced out the window, “You must have heard about the murder that happened last night?”

John nodded. “Yeah, dreadful business.”

“Well, they brought someone in to take a look and he needs an assistant – someone who knows their way around the healer side of things – and I know you had plenty of experience travelling around with the Edori and—”

“Wait, wait,” John interrupted, rubbing at his forehead, “you want me to go look at a murder? Doesn’t the investigative team already have a medic?”

“They do, but the angel they brought in doesn’t want his help. When I mentioned you, he wanted to meet you so… he’s right outside if you don’t mind speaking with him.”

“It’s been a slow day, John,” Sarah added from where she sat at a table, drying various types of mushrooms. “Might be something interesting to check out.”

John frowned in consideration then shrugged. “All right,” he said, taking a few steps forward. “Let’s meet him.”

Mike opened the door behind him, revealing an impatient-looking angel standing in the sunlight, his arms crossed across his chest. Dark curls adorned his head and his eyes were an astonishing shade of green or blue, John wasn’t quite sure, set above high cheekbones. The blue of the city framing his silhouette brought out his eyes in startling clarity. He was ethereally beautiful and unreasonably tall.

“Sherlock, this is John. John, Sherlock.” Mike stepped out of their path and John reached into the gap to offer his hand which Sherlock shook firmly.

“I’ve been informed you’re ‘one of the best’,” Sherlock said, his voice a contemplative rumble. “The body’s only getting colder as we stand here so if you’ll follow me—”

“Hang on, I didn’t agree to anything yet.”

Sherlock turned back around, having already stepped halfway out the door, and paused. “Chievens or Barcerras?”

John’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You travelled with the Edori prior to settling here in Luminaux. The Chieven clan or the Barcerra clan?” Sherlock repeated, gaze steady as he met John’s narrowed eyes.

“… the Chievens, sorry, how did you know that?” John glanced at Mike then at Sarah, who both only shrugged.

“If you won’t be following, I’m afraid I must be going, what with a murderer on the loose,” Sherlock said, swiftly starting to walk back to the artist’s shop.

“I—” John glanced once more at Mike and Sarah who looked faintly amused then exited the shop as fast as his limp allowed. “Oh for Jovah’s sake,” he muttered. This angel was definitely not like any other angel he’d met before. “Hey! Hang on, I’m coming.”

Sherlock stopped halfway down the street and watched him approach. “That limp of yours is psychosomatic. You don’t need that cane.”

John felt his mouth twist downward and gripped his cane tightly as he finally caught up to Sherlock. He was irritated but couldn’t help but be a little curious of the angel’s choice of vocabulary – angels rarely became ill and were usually used to just calling medicine from the heavens, so most of them never bothered to pick up a medical book complex enough to contain a word like ‘psychosomatic’. “Oh, really. And what else do you know about me?” he asked, a little hotly.

Sherlock eyed him carefully with an arched eyebrow then opened his mouth. “You asked how I knew which Edori clan you were associated with. I overheard Mike mention that you had travelled with the Edori prior to your current situation however that only confirmed what I could read in your face and hands. Your tan is fading from being in the city but it’s still noticeable enough to signify a considerable amount of time spent in the sun, so you used to travel a lot. Your hair is short, cut roughly with a blade of some sort – a normal tradesman who would travel via the roads would have regular stops in cities to get a proper haircut or opt to keep it longer, so not that but the Edori, they travel year-round and form camps when they’re not near a city, so shorter hair would be more convenient. Your hands are calloused, also indicating a lot of time spent outdoors and braving the seasons. Now for the clan… you have a small design on the back of your right hand. It’s not permanent ink so it’s already fading. It was a parting gift from your clan – adopted, I might add, as you are clearly not a native Edori from your colouring and features – and the emblem is blurred but still recognizable enough to be narrowed down to one of two clans, hence the Chievens or the Barcerras.”

John stared at him in astonished silence which Sherlock seemed to take as a sign to continue. “Now your leg – your limp is strongly pronounced when you walk but when you stand, you don’t ask to sit, as if you’ve forgotten about it. Therefore it’s not a physical injury but a side effect from some traumatic experience – the same applies to that tremor in your left hand. Travelling with the Edori, I imagine you ran into the odd Jansai slave raid; perhaps you helped the clans defend themselves. You were injured and could no longer travel so you came here, where you could still work as a healer. You didn’t turn for help to your brother, Harry, who I also heard mentioned, as he’s likely still travelling with the Edori which explains the long absences between letters – you don’t approve, as that’s how you got injured, but you’re not about to tell him to stop.” Sherlock looked down at him with an edge of triumph in his eyes. “… I imagine I know quite a lot about you, John.”

 John’s eyes were wide as he gazed back at Sherlock who seemed to be bracing himself for something, the gleam in his eyes fading and mouth pressed into a line, and his own mouth worked to find the words before finally saying, “That… was amazing.”

The angel looked slightly startled at the reaction, and for once at a loss for words. There was a sharp twinge in John’s right arm and he rubbed at it, the sensation fading before his fingers even touched the fabric covering it.

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course,” John replied with a smile. And he meant it. Never in his life had he witnessed anything so astounding. He could see why Sherlock had been called in to help though the hint of doubt colouring Sherlock’s question made him wonder – how did people normally react? “That was all spot on, though Harry is short for Harriet. She’s my sister.”

Sherlock frowned and huffed a little at that. “There’s always something…” he muttered, turning back in the direction of the crime scene. “Shall we?”

John shrugged and stepped forward. Sarah was right, the clinic had been quiet all day so far and perhaps he’d learn something useful watching Sherlock work. “Might as well.”

\---

Sherlock had found his angelico without even meaning to. As he walked briskly back to the artist’s shop, he could feel the presence of John following him at a stuttered, but steady pace.

Mycroft had told him John, son of Hamish and Elizabeth, was currently living in Luminaux. But once he’d turned his thoughts to the case, he’d all but forgotten about the Archangel situation. In such a busy city as Luminaux, he wouldn’t have expected to meet him without actively looking and yet here they were, practically placed before each other.

Hearing the name “John” had triggered the memory but he’d doubted this was the John meant for him (it was such a common name, after all) until after he’d stubbornly deduced everything he could at first glance, taking John’s irritated retort as a challenge. The brief burst of warmth in his Kiss after the words of praise surprised him, the visible sparks inside the stone gone before he could examine them, and he noticed John absently rubbing at his own arm.

The logical side of him argued that a one-time flicker was not conclusive proof that this John was his angelico. Experiments were never completed with a sample size of one and the fable of the Kiss had never even been scientifically proven. But he had complimented him. And he was following him to a crime scene, wasn’t he? It certainly wasn’t behavior he was used to seeing from people he’d met only minutes ago.

They turned a corner and the artist’s shop came into view, Lestrade standing outside waiting for his return while Anderson spoke to a woman on the team, Sally Donovan, off to the side. Sherlock shifted his thoughts to refocus on the case. He could deal with John afterwards.

“Is this him then?” Lestrade asked, watching John limp up the street behind him.

“Yes, my assistant,” he replied, brushing past him and into the building, eyes drifting over painted canvases (some dating back as far as ten years ago) and brushes (ox hair, purchased from a shop one street over) and dust (haphazard cleaning, difficult with her illness). “The body?”

“The back room.”

Sherlock continued down a narrow hallway, hearing John politely greet and introduce himself to Lestrade before following him inside, cane thumping on the wooden floor. He pushed past the curtain hanging across the doorway and released a slow breath at the sight of the woman lying on the ground.

There was a significant layer of dust and dried paint on the floor, dust bunnies crowded in the corners of the room, but not on the sheet covering the table – Sherlock lifted a corner to see a collection of small pots, a swipe of paint on their exterior labeling their contents – so this was her work room. The sheet was regularly removed when she painted but the floor was left as is due to her condition, and she never bothered to get it cleaned. Two sets of recent footprints. And by her hand, two words written in the dust but not carved into the floor. He crouched by her head, lifting his wings to keep them from trailing through the clues, and examined her face and hands with one of his magnifying glasses.

“What can you give me?” Lestrade stood in the doorway, John beside him with a solemn expression as he stared at the body.

“She painted here. She was proud, didn’t want to ask for help, which is why the cleaning was limited to what she could reach. The front room floor is relatively cleaner from customers walking in and out, taking the dust with them whereas in here, she was usually by herself. There are two different footprints, one matches the shoes on her feet, the other appears to be some sort of work boot, a heavier gait, so a man. There’s no visible struggle so she invited him in – it was someone she knew or someone who appealed to her enough that she felt she could trust him. Like the others, she swallowed the poison herself.” Sherlock stood and stepped carefully around the body. “The words on the floor – you were right, they are in the divine language, but she didn’t write them. It was done gently, no sign of desperation or indication of the palm dragging across the ground, so the killer had lifted and used her hand to write them in the dust before leaving.”

“Fantastic,” John burst out. His hand shot to his right arm and a flash of confusion crossed his face before he murmured, “Sorry.”

Sherlock felt the mirroring heat fading from his own arm at the second outburst of praise but he kept his face blank, filing away the moment in his head. He wondered if anyone had noticed the glow in his Kiss but no one said a word.

“But the words,” Lestrade gestured at the symbols on the floor, “what do they say?”

Sherlock felt an anticipatory smile quirk his lips as he read the phrase again. Mycroft was not going to be pleased. “’I know’.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It’s a message. Whoever the murderer is, they wanted my attention and they knew you would call for me, so they left a note.”

The angel stared at him. “Hang on, you’re telling me the killer left you a message?”

“It’s none of your concern for the moment. John, take a look at the body, would you?” Sherlock said, stepping out of the way.

Lestrade shouted, “What do you mean none of my concern?” at the same time that John asked incredulously, “What do you need me to look at her for? You’ve solved it all, haven’t you?”

“Lestrade, it’s something I need to ask you to keep to yourself until I can consult with the Archangel. John, you have a vast level of knowledge of the vegetation in this land along with your healer expertise so see if you can identify what might have killed her.”

The Inspector threw his hands up in surrender and stalked back down the hallway, yelling over his shoulder, “Fine, do what you want. Find me later and tell me your leads.”

Sherlock looked expectantly at John, the conflict visible on the man’s face before it smoothed away and he limped forward, adjusting his leg as he knelt by the woman’s head.

\---

John didn’t know what in the name of Jovah he was doing here. Watching Sherlock do what he did was incredible but it made it him considerably doubt the angel’s need for an assistant. He also didn’t know why his arm kept feeling flashes of heat when the only thing that met his fingers was the hard glass of the Kiss underneath his shirt sleeve. Had he twisted a muscle somehow?

After Lestrade left in a frustrated huff, which John didn’t blame him for, Sherlock beckoned him to look at the body. He stared at her form on the floor in apprehension. It had been a while since he’d looked at a dead body up close. He had taken a moment when first entering the room and seeing her there to recollect the sight of his fallen friends and enemies over the years and it humbled him, the knowledge that at any moment, a person’s life could just be over. But beneath that, there was a sense of justice rising to the surface, the idea that perhaps he could help track down whoever had killed this woman and have them face what they deserved. It was a little thrilling, he had to admit.

John sniffed at her mouth and examined the colouring on her lips, recognizing the unique tang of plant matter to the scent. “There’s no bruising which confirms your point of a lack of a struggle. She choked on her own vomit so it has to be Lucifer Root. It’s easily confused with Angel’s Breath as the plant looks and smells the same but only one of them is deadly.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought,” came the murmuring response from overhead.

He frowned, feeling a little deflated. “You already knew that too? Then why did you ask me to look at her?”

“I figured it would be good to get confirmation from someone who’s dealt with the plant first-hand.”

“Well you got it,” John said, rising to his feet with a groan. “Glad I could help. It was really interesting seeing you work but if there’s nothing else I can help you with, I ought to get back to the medical shop.”

 “Oh, don’t be like that.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Though I may have acquired a fair amount of information from my own experiments and readings, your practical knowledge is unarguably higher from years of experience. I also lack your healer proficiency.”

John rubbed at his neck. “Oh… well, thanks.” He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that compliment. “But I really should be getting back. Afternoons are usually the worst with the mid-morning travelers finally getting into the city so I—”

“John, son of Hamish and Elizabeth.”

He froze and turned to look at Sherlock incredulously. “How do you know that? You can’t have possibly read that from, I don’t know, my clothes.”

“You’re my angelico, John.”

“I’m sorry, your _what_?”

Sherlock’s eyes bore into him from across the room. “I am to be the next Archangel and you have been chosen by Jovah to act as my…” he seemed to consider his word choice, “partner.”

John felt himself step backward in reaction and continued to stare at him blankly. Was this angel legitimately insane? There was a quiet conviction in the piercing eyes and he appeared perfectly calm so maybe he wasn’t. But who had ever heard of an Archangel getting paired with an angelica or angelico of the same sex? Weren’t they supposed to get _married_? Sure, John had fooled around with a few Edori men (and women) on those long treks across the provinces – it was hard not to when the Edori view on relationships was so forgivingly open – but that didn’t mean he’d ever thought about getting married to one.

Sherlock seemed to read the thoughts on his face as his next words were, “If your concern is your romantic obligations, please be assured there are none and you will be free to find solace elsewhere.”

John sputtered, at a loss of how to deal with the entire situation. Introduced just after lunch to an angel who read his entire history in his face and hands, accompanied said angel to a murder scene where he spelled out impossible details from dust, and now being told Jovah had deemed him the future husband (bride??) of the very same angel who appeared to be telling him that it was fine if he went sleeping around with anyone he liked. “Sherlock—”

“You’ll have to get settled at the Eyrie, so we should leave as soon as I speak with Lestrade—”

“Sherlock!” John was still feeling very overwhelmed and was starting to realize that he was dealing with someone who lacked an understanding of social norms. “I am not going with you to the Eyrie. I don’t even know you! You can’t expect me to just pack up and leave just because you told me I’m your angelica-angelico-whatever the term is going to be!”

Sherlock seemed to consider this, his eyes lowered, as silence filled the room. John idly noted to himself that they were having this sort of conversation in a room with a dead body and almost giggled at the absurdity.

“I see,” the angel finally said. “Well, I should tell Lestrade where the suspect is likely to turn up next, given his current pattern, so I’ll be off. If you change your mind, do come visit the Eyrie. Also, I must ask that you refrain from telling anyone of my nomination – the public announcement will be soon and it would be best if the news isn’t spread before then.”

Sherlock swept out of the room, leaving John to stare after the white feathers trailing down the hallway. The angel’s abrupt exit left him a little thrown and he took a moment for himself, staring at the dust and trying to see what Sherlock had seen, before limping outside into the sunlight. Lestrade was down the street speaking to Mike who’d returned from Sarah’s shop, so Sherlock had already left for the Eyrie – John felt a twinge of something at that (an odd mix of annoyance and disappointment, perhaps) but brushed it away quickly and headed for the road. The woman he’d seen outside on his way in called out to him and he stopped to look at her.

“You came in with the freak. Who are you?”

Freak? “I’m… nobody, really,” he replied. “I’m just a healer in town. I got asked to help out.”

“Well, take my advice: stay away from Sherlock,” she said. “He’s not like the other angels – he’s not even like us humans. He gets some strange joy out of solving the murders in this world and it’s not because he’s helping people. One day we might find a body lying in the mountains and it’ll be because he put it there.”

“Donovan,” a voice called, and with a last pointed look at John, she walked away.

John watched her go and wondered at the fact that that was two people who had walked away from a rather one-sided conversation within a span of ten minutes. As he started back in the direction of Sarah’s, he hoped it wasn’t going to become a common occurrence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the start of my take on _A Study in Pink_. I'm not going to be mirroring all of the cases but I figured it's a good place to start. :) Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Map of Samaria for location/distance references](http://i.imgur.com/i6TWCKO.jpg)

Sherlock landed lightly at the Eyrie, the harmonics washing over him as he walked inside. The briefing with Lestrade hadn’t taken long. Based on the killer’s strategic route down the river, he appeared to be aiming to hit all of the major cities and the next closest city that he hadn’t already visited was none other than Velora, right below the Eyrie. That was at least six days’ worth of travel by horseback and he suspected the man was not travelling alone. Alone would be too obvious, too easily traceable to have a person appear and disappear from a city at the same time as the murders, especially if he was going around making conversation with the victims, but without further evidence, stopping every caravan leaving the city would be useless. So Sherlock had suggested they wait and given the city’s close proximity, he’d stated that he would find a way to identify the killer before the next murder. Lestrade had strongly opposed the idea but conceded that there wasn’t much else they could do – however he promised to be at the Eyrie in six days’ time, saying if this was going to happen, he wasn’t about to leave Sherlock without backup. 

Leaving a message with a laundry girl in the hallway, Sherlock headed straight for his room and shed the leather flying outfit, changing into his pyjama pants and a robe. Gently lifting a violin from his chair, he sat in its place, his wings pooling into feathered puddles on the floor, and began plucking at the strings quietly. It helped him think. The violin he’d purchased years ago in Luminaux, from one of the best luthiers in town, and it was a beautiful instrument.

Luminaux. 

John. 

Sherlock didn’t even bother to pretend that he understood what had happened there. He was well-educated in a vast number of subjects but dealing with the public was admittedly not his forte. The surprise and hesitation were expected. After all, it’s not every day that a person gets told that they have been chosen by Jovah to stand beside the Archangel-elect. The vehement refusal to follow him though was unexpected. Given the gossip he’d been forced to endure in his early years, Sherlock was under the impression that this was something many people wanted, if not dreamed of, for their future. 

Obviously that was not the case with John. The man was independent without a doubt, someone who insisted on doing things himself, as indicated by his drive to continue working despite his handicap. Perhaps it was the implication that he wasn’t in control of the situation that made John refuse. 

The rejection itself was not a huge concern to Sherlock in terms of keeping the planet intact – there was evidence in the history books of Archangels standing with partners not chosen by Jovah on the morn of the Gloria with no adverse effects. No lightning rained down from the heavens to first destroy Mount Galo, then the Galilee River, and finally the world itself. Sherlock had long suspected _Jehovah_ wasn’t necessarily concerned with which voices were raised to it in song on the Gloria as opposed to a large enough number, which would appear to fulfill the requirement of “harmony” on Samaria. 

Still, a tiny voice inside that he’d long since hidden away expressed a little disappointment that John hadn’t come. The reaction of the Kiss had been unexpected and peculiar and something he would have liked to examine more. And Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time someone had praised him after a deduction. It was a pleasant change from the norm. 

The door to his room swung open after the first warning chime and Mycroft strolled in, shutting it behind him. “Am I to presume something important occurred in Luminaux to merit you requesting my presence? I do have meetings to prepare for.” He settled into a comfortable stance. “Perhaps you have found your angelico?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes a little. “It’s no surprise to me that you were tracking our positions in Luminaux, given the obvious signs that you’ve returned from a visit to Sinai only an hour ago, but I didn’t ask you here to discuss that. The murder in the city – our killer left a message specifically for me however the implications concern you greatly as well.”

“And the message was?”

“They had written the phrase ‘I know’ in the divine language. Certainly I don’t need to explain why this is of concern to you.”

Mycroft’s face had gone stony and his voice was quiet when he replied, “No.”

Whoever had written that message was taunting him – no, taunting _them_. They’d lived most of their lives hiding the truth about Jovah and here was someone claiming they knew as well. 

There was also a potential double meaning to the words, as Sherlock’s nomination had yet to be publicly announced. Mycroft had wanted to hold a proper meeting with the other holds to reveal that information but if rumours were to spread early, it could cause some problems. 

“I doubt they’d gained their information from Sinai, considering the presence of Anthea and the likelihood that she would have noticed anyone using the screen there, so I can only assume our culprit gained access at Mount Sudan or Egypt.”

The language used by the oracles was generally not public knowledge. It wasn’t forbidden, as anyone could apply as an acolyte to be trained by the oracles but the spread of the language generally stopped there. Each oracle location had its own library but the largest collection of texts brought by the early settlers existed at Mount Sinai, with nearly all of it written in the old language. There were also manuscripts that detailed the vocabulary and grammar at each location and if someone were to sneak in and take one of them, it could be very easy for them to teach themselves. The book he and Mycroft had found in their youth was a rarity and they’d donated it to Mount Sinai once they became fluent.

“I’ll have someone investigate the matter.” Mycroft’s face was grim.

“There was something else that I noticed,” Sherlock said, strumming the violin. “I suspect it is a sign of more dire things to come rather than one of comfort, however I believe the murderer is not the one who knows. The writing was not fluid, not done with the ease of one familiar enough with the language to have learned what we know. It appeared drawn, traced, as if the man had been copying it carefully from somewhere.”

“So you think someone else is behind all of this.” 

“The message and the murders, yes. Someone who isn’t afraid to essentially show their hand because they don’t intend on using it as expected. They plan on doing something else with this information…” He laid his hand flat against the strings, ceasing their vibrations. “The question is what.”

Mycroft pressed two fingers to his temple and sighed. “And who.”

“Well, there is some information to help answer that. Our murderer started in Semorrah, so it’s very likely that whoever was providing him with instructions either lived in the city or nearby. I’m inclined towards the latter, or more specifically, Windy Point.”

“An angel?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock conceded, steepling his fingers. “An angel would have the most to gain or lose with the possession of such sacrilegious information and would have the means of delivering instructions without being restricted to the time constraints of ground travel. Of course, I doubt they performed the work themselves, opting to send a variety of lackeys in their place to avoid drawing suspicion.”

“I’m meeting with Sebastian after an assembly in Breven. If you’d care to join us perhaps you could glean whether he’s aware of anything going on at Windy Point.”

Sebastian was the leader of the host at Windy Point. Sherlock had only met the angel a handful of times and exchanged even fewer words. The angel ran his hold with a rather ruthless efficiency and often had volunteers sent to the other holds to help out on their daily duties. 

“Unfortunately, I may be indisposed at that time. The murderer is likely to arrive in Velora in roughly six days’ time so I’m afraid I will be terribly busy dealing with that.”

“I trust Lestrade will be joining you as well. Would anyone else happen to be arriving from Luminaux?” Mycroft asked pointedly. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in irritation at the change in subject. “No, John is not coming to the Eyrie.” He plucked a few violin strings. “He expressed no desire to follow me and I had no desire to push the matter. If you are concerned of him spreading the news, I requested he keep it to himself.”

“I see.” Mycroft observed him for a moment – Sherlock hated when he tried to read him – then turned towards the door. “Well, I must set off for my meeting in Breven. If you learn anything else, do let me know upon my return.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise in response as his brother left and picked up the violin bow, drawing it across the strings into a harmonizing melody with the voices singing overhead. 

\---

“Bye, Sarah. I’ll see you tomorrow,” said John, waving as he paused in the doorway. 

“Have a good evening, John,” Sarah replied. She tilted her head, frowning a little in concern. “Is everything okay? You seemed a little out of sorts when you came back from the crime scene. Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged you to go.”

John absently rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Oh no, that was fine, it’s just—” That ridiculous angel who coerced me to join him is apparently the future Archangel and surprise! I’ve been chosen by Jovah to act as his angelico which is absolutely bizarre. But he couldn’t tell her all of that, not when Sherlock had seemed so serious about keeping the matter quiet. “—nothing. I suppose it’s been a while since I’ve seen a body up close. Don’t worry about me, a good night’s sleep should fix me right up.”

She smiled at him, the worry still shining in her eyes, and said, “Don’t be too hard on yourself. Most people go their whole lives only seeing people die of old age or illness, not from being killed. I can’t even imagine what you saw while travelling with the Edori.”

“I saw enough to last me a lifetime.” Waving again, John stepped out onto the blue cobblestones. 

The setting sun caused the colours to mix and bathed the buildings and streets in a green hue; it was just as beautiful as it was during the day. Young boys with lanterns were running down the roads, climbing up the hanging street lamps to light them while the city continued to bustle around them with angels and humans alike carrying their purchases. Luminaux was a city that stayed active until the last bazaar stall closed for the night, which often stretched past midnight. John paused at a meat bun stand to grab dinner then headed towards the residential district where he rented one side of a split villa. He hadn’t taken Sarah’s initial offer to move into her spare room because it felt like he would be imposing. It was small and it was a single room but it was what he could afford when he’d first stepped foot into Luminaux after his injury. 

He and Harry had joined the travelling Edori roughly ten years ago when their parents died. The idea of living off the land and unrestricted by walls appealed to a restlessness they shared. She met a woman named Clara in the Cashita clan a few years later and they parted ways when the camp broke outside of Semorrah, her following the clan west while John remained with the Chieven clan and headed east. A different blend of Edori clans would combine and part as they made their own paths across Samaria. John’s presence was welcomed as he worked hard, being one of the first to rise in the morning and always offering a helping hand around the campsite, and the Chievens named him a son and brother to them. 

If he was lucky, John would meet Harry a few times a year. He could, however, always count on seeing her at the Gathering, an annual event where all of the Edori clans came together at a single meeting place to share stories and news and to see faces, old and new. 

John reached his little home and let himself in, sitting down on the bed heavily. The furnishings were sparse - John never saw much point in acquiring comfort items for a place that didn’t feel like home. He glanced down at his cane and sighed a little. He knew it was all in his head. Despite the fact that the Edori travelled with plenty of people who weren’t fully mobile, John had decided to part ways with them, only travelling as far as Luminaux where he’d joined Sarah. And it was here that he’d spent his last few months, his life a constant ebb and flow of patients and books to keep his knowledge sharp with nothing remotely out of the ordinary. 

Well, until Sherlock.

He’d gone from seeing patients and prescribing combinations of herbs to walking onto a murder scene with an angel who read his history in his skin and hair and leg and the crime in the dust on the floor, and ended it all with the proclamation that he was the angelico to his Archangel, all in one day. 

That had to be some sort of record.

Hours later, now in his room, John mused over what Donovan had said to him outside the painter’s shop. It went without saying that Sherlock wasn’t like the others. Sure, he barely knew him, but John had met hundreds of unique people during his travels and no one was capable of doing what Sherlock did with a mere glance. Although he found it fascinating, from Donovan’s use of the name “freak” and Sherlock’s subtle apprehension after he’d deduced John, that same admiration obviously didn’t apply to everyone else.

John ripped off a small piece of the meat bun and chewed on it thoughtfully. He hadn’t meant to refuse Sherlock quite so forcefully but he’d been caught off guard and felt cornered and frustrated. Was he wrong? Would it have been so bad to just follow Sherlock?

It was late by the time John crawled into bed, the bun half-eaten on the table, and he’d been staring at the ceiling running the day over in his head for the tenth time when someone knocked at his door. Glancing at the curtains, he could see the figure silhouetted against his window by the street lamp, an angel from the shadowy appendages attached to its back. John slid out of bed and limped over with his cane, opening the door at the second set of knocks. 

“May I help you?”

“The Archangel Mycroft would like to speak with you,” the angel replied, taking a step backward expectantly. “Please follow me.”

John eyed the angel, taking in the unique design burned into the flying leathers signifying his service to the Archangel and considered whether it was proof enough. He wasn’t one for following strangers in the dead of night - angels were servants of Jovah but he wasn’t foolish enough to think they couldn’t be corrupted - but a summons from the Archangel wasn’t something to be ignored. He finally stuffed his feet into his shoes and stepped outside, cane clacking loudly against the stones in the cool night air. 

The angel lead him down the streets to an area on the edge of the city that was dark and uninhabited. What in the world was the Archangel doing in a place like this? John was starting to regret his decision when they stopped in front of a building with a dim light flickering inside the room. He was ushered inside to face another angel waiting patiently at the far end of the room. A single candle sat on a table in the centre of the room.

John had only seen the Archangel from a distance at the Glorias and occasionally in passing if the angel happened to be in the same city the Edori had stopped at for supplies. He was always impeccably dressed and this time was no different – John wondered if anyone had ever caught him wearing the more casual flying leathers.

“My apologies for calling at such a late hour,” Mycroft began, “I do hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, I was awake.” 

“I would have come in the morning but I’m afraid we’re leaving right at dawn for Breven so there wouldn’t have been time to have a chat.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “It would have been faster to pass through Castelana but something more pressing came to my attention that required a detour through Luminaux.”

“What does it have to do with me?” John asked.

“What do you know about Sherlock?”

He froze and kept his gaze steady. This was the Archangel but Sherlock had asked him to keep his nomination private – could Mycroft be hoping to do something with that information? It wasn’t unheard of to have people in power reluctant to step down when their term came to an end. “Nothing, I only met him earlier today. Hardly enough time to learn anything of importance.”

The Archangel chucked. “You’re very loyal, very quickly.”

“No, I’m-“

“John, son of Hamish and Elizabeth. Adopted member of the Chievens, received an injury several months ago and relocated here.”

John stared at Mycroft in silence, feeling very unnerved. How did he know that information? He’d never spoken to this angel before in his life and he doubted he was able to read him like Sherlock. Of course, he had nothing to hide but it was unsettling all the same, having a history he shared with very few people laid out before him by two angels in one day. 

“You’re not one to make friends easily here in the city and yet it appears you’ve decided to blindly trust Sherlock, enough to keep one of his secrets.” Mycroft looked amused. “Not something I’d generally recommend but given the circumstances, I suppose it’s a good sign.”

“What circumstances? And how do you know all that?” 

“As the leader of Samaria, I have my sources,” he replied, then observed John silently for a moment. “You’re uncomfortable and yet you don’t seem very frightened.”

It was John’s turn to be amused and he couldn’t help but let it show. “Why should I be frightened? Because you pulled me out of my room in the middle of the night to take me to some abandoned building? Out of everyone on this world, you’re the one person who’s supposed to abide by the rules of the god the most.”

“There are many who would abuse their power and I certainly have a lot of it.”

“Yes, but you won’t. From what I’ve heard, you stick as close to the word of Jovah as possible. You banned slavery of the Edori on your first day as Archangel because you felt it did nothing to further the cause for peace that is the essence of the Gloria every year.” John remembered how the Edori would often praise the Archangel for his efforts and how they would always recite a prayer of thanks to him at the Gatherings. 

“Guilty, I’m afraid,” Mycroft replied, “though if everyone listened to the word of the Archangel, you wouldn’t be here now. Regardless, as intimidation is obviously not a viable avenue with you, perhaps a simple request would be more effective. Go to the Eyrie, John.”

That threw John off guard and his eyes widened in surprise. “What—“

“Sherlock is difficult to deal with and to understand. My younger brother has very few allies and even fewer he could possibly call a friend but if he is to become Archangel, he will need someone reliable at his side that he can count on.” His expression was thoughtful. “Perhaps with time and effort, that person could be you. Jovah certainly agrees considering he’s named you as Sherlock’s angelico.”

“Wait, your _brother_? Sherlock’s your brother?” John asked incredulously. 

“It was admirable of you to keep his nomination to yourself as he’d requested, which is partially why I came if only to ensure that you had. I must also ask you to continue to do so until I return to the Eyrie.” Mycroft turned to the door and opened it, the night breeze drifting into the room and causing the candlelight to flicker.

John frowned and straightened his back in defiance. “I never said I was going, even if I am his ‘angelico’.”

“No?” The Archangel shifted a wing out of the way and glanced back at him over his shoulder. “When you walk beside Sherlock, you see the battlefield, as you must have noticed earlier today. The healer who attended you in Castelana suggested that tremor in your left hand is due to psychological trauma. They were wrong. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You’re not haunted by the battles, John – you miss them.” He stepped outside and began walking away, the other angel trailing behind. “Go to the Eyrie, John,” Mycroft repeated.

John watched the two angels disappear around a corner before shutting the door and leaning against it. Mycroft and Sherlock were definitely brothers from the way they both eerily read him – was he that transparent? It was admittedly thrilling being around the dangerous aspects of humanity once more when he’d stepped onto that murder scene. He’d initially joined the Edori because of the unknown of never being tied to one location; he’d stayed because of the feeling of being useful, the friendships he’d built, and the knowledge that he could help protect them. After his injury, he felt he was no longer useful nor could he protect them. To John, that was enough for him to leave and he knew it was a form of self-punishment because he missed the companionship… and he missed the danger, as Mycroft had so astutely noted. 

There was something about Sherlock that pulled those old feelings to the surface, something in the way he walked onto the crime scene with intention and anticipation in his step. Sherlock had wanted him there and it made him feel like he had a purpose again. 

He stayed in the room staring at the candle until its light sputtered and died in a pool of wax before shuffling out into the night again. 

When dawn broke, John stopped by Sarah’s, letting her know that he was going to be gone from Luminaux for an indeterminate length of time. Promising to collect his things from his place and store them, she smiled and wished him luck, hoping that he would find his peace wherever he was headed – even when he’d first come to find her in Luminaux, she knew he wouldn’t stay forever, knew he was restless. 

Joining up with the first caravan heading towards Velora, John boarded a farmer’s cart with a small bundle of clothes, water, and food to last the journey along with a good portion of his savings. Yes, he was going to the Eyrie but upon arrival, things were going to be on his own terms. No angel was going to dictate his life, regardless of Jovah’s declarations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long! I unexpectedly ended up doing a crapload of travelling in the span of three weeks so I didn't have a lot of time at a computer. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Map of Samaria for location/distance references](http://i.imgur.com/i6TWCKO.jpg)

It was early evening when the caravan rolled into Velora. John hadn’t been back to this particular city in over a year and he found himself trying to spot the differences as the cart he rode headed towards the stables. It had grown a little, though still small in comparison to the sprawling expanse of Luminaux, and it was still just as colourful as ever. The Edori loved shopping in Velora every time they camped nearby if only for the markets with their vast variety of fabrics and clothing.

John thanked the farmer who’d allowed him to ride along and was about to start looking for an inn when a figure soaring down from the large mountain towering over the city caught his eye. He’d only met the angel once and yet he was already unmistakable.

He watched Sherlock land at the entrance to Velora and immediately start running his gaze across the scattered caravan. The angel stepped slowly through the organized chaos, no doubt analyzing each person within a few seconds.

John limped up behind Sherlock and cleared his throat. “Hello.”

Sherlock’s head whipped towards him and to his surprise, he looked genuinely startled. “John.” His expression quickly turned into a scowl. “Mycroft,” he muttered.

“Yes,” John confirmed, “but I didn’t come because of him. He made a few good points but I’m ultimately here because I chose to be.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Actually, no. He considered it but decided to just ask nicely instead, although I suppose ‘nicely’ is a subjective term.”

Sherlock made a noise that sounded amused and lifted his head to start scanning the crowds again. “So why are you here, if not at the request of the Archangel?”

“I’ve thought about the situation and if we’re going to do… whatever this is, we should get to know each other first. I’m not here to claim my role as angelico but I’m also not completely against the possibility.”

“I see. In that case, care to join me at that café?” Sherlock gestured to a small restaurant with an outdoor seating area. “I intend to continue my observations and you’re obviously hungry as you ate the last of your food last night and refused to accept anything from the farmer you accompanied on the trip for your morning or mid-day meal.”

“Obviously,” John echoed, unable to suppress a small smile. “That sounds great.”

They seated themselves at a table with an optimal view of the people milling about the entrance and organizing themselves. Sherlock shot a quick glance at the cane as John settled himself into the chair before turning his face away, eyes constantly moving. A waiter with unique hair – some sort of dye had been used to colour the blond edges red – arrived with menus and Sherlock flashed one of the bracelets he wore without looking. John hadn’t noticed them before but recognized them as the form of payment angels used. There were sapphire stones arranged in a unique pattern around the simple gold band. Each hold used a different precious stone to allow residents to signal their association – sapphires for the Eyrie, emeralds for Monteverde, and rubies for Windy Point – and showing the bracelet notified the seller to charge the hold directly. The system didn’t work everywhere but most of the larger cities were happy to oblige.

John frowned, feeling a little uncomfortable. “You don’t have to pay for my meal.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, the Eyrie is rich. A single meal isn’t going to throw the hold into poverty and you’re going to insist on staying at an inn rather than at the Eyrie so I may as well reduce your costs.”

Not denying the allegation, John picked up a menu gingerly and scanned the items before peering over the top at Sherlock. “A single meal? Aren’t you eating?”

Sherlock pointedly pushed his menu away without stopping his observation of the crowd. “No, not when I’m on a case.”

“And you’re on a case right now?” John pointed out an item to the returning waiter then sat back in his chair. “The one from Luminaux?”

“Yes, the murderer likely arrived in this city in the same caravan you did.”

What? John froze mid-sip of his water glass. “You’re telling me I spent the last six days in the same group as a murderer?”

“Well he wouldn’t have murdered you on the way, that’s not what he does. He finds someone in the city then steals away like an apparition to the next,” the angel replied.

“Oh, that’s _very_ reassuring.”

Sherlock finally turned towards him. “Given your experience dealing with Jansai raiders, I highly doubt he would have provided you much of a challenge if he had attempted violence by force – your psychosomatic injuries would likely be forgotten in a situation of stress. I’m not as confident of my assessment of your mental health, given that the killer appears to prey on the mind and you are obviously harbouring several issues from your past, however you are more than likely stable enough to resist him.”

There it was again. That incredible point-blank assessment without a second thought. “Can you do that with anyone?”

“Do what?”

“Analyze them with a single glance.”

The waiter reappeared with John’s food and placed the dish on the table. Sherlock’s eyes flickered over him quickly then he opened his mouth. “I can tell you that based on his clothes, he travelled here and hasn’t had time to purchase or clean his other clothing – so he likely arrived very recently, if not just last evening. The café owner is always looking for help so work was easy to find and he’s good around people. The ring hanging from the chain around his neck is there for sentimental reasons; it’s very old, at least fifteen years, so not a girlfriend but probably his mother. He left town because of her, feels he disappoints her, and dyed his hair in an attempt to get the attention he craves. He’s working in the hopes that he can bring enough money back to gain her praise.”

An uncomfortable silence had settled over the other diners as Sherlock had rather loudly spread the man’s heart out in the open. John shifted in his seat and Sherlock suddenly seemed to realize his error.

“Not good?” he asked hesitantly.

“Bit not good,” John replied softly. He looked up at the waiter. “Sorry, um…”

“The name’s Rian.” He smiled a bit helplessly. “And it’s fine, it’s all true anyway. Enjoy your meal.” Rian shuffled off to the kitchen and the background murmurs returned as conversation picked up again.

“You asked me if I could deduce anyone,” Sherlock stated, a little accusingly.

“I know, I just wasn’t expecting a demonstration.” John picked up a fork and prodded at his food a few times. “It was still impressive.”

“Oh... thank you.” He glanced down at John’s plate and frowned. “What’s that?”

“It’s rice,” John replied, puzzled, and lifted a portion up.

“No, not that, _that_.” Sherlock reached out and pulled a folded sheet of paper out from under the plate. He stared at the contents and abruptly stood up, vaulting himself over the wooden fence containing the outdoor eating area.

John swallowed the food in his mouth and looked at him in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“The murderer was here.” John watched Sherlock look around quickly, trying to spot something and evidently find it as he took off at a run down the road.

He glanced down at the unfolded sheet lying on the table, “Come find me, Sherlock” scrawled across it in messy letters. Was Sherlock going to chase down the murderer by himself? Climbing over the fence, John slung his bag back over his shoulder and took off after Sherlock without a second thought, keeping his eyes on the white feathered wings.

\---

Sherlock raced through the streets, cutting through buildings and shops as he mentally calculated the layout of the city. He was forced to stay on foot, wings held tight to his body, as the crowds and narrow streets gave him no room to take to the air. He could hear John keeping up behind him and felt a flash of triumph knowing the cane had been left far behind and that he’d been right about the leg.

Stopping abruptly at one of the intersections, Sherlock paused to map out where each road would take them. John skid to a halt behind him and jerked backward to avoid touching his wings. Interesting. It seemed John was aware of the angels’ aversion to having their wings touched without permission.

“Sherlock -“

“No time, John. This way.”

They sprinted off again and when the shadowy figure flashed by one street over, Sherlock pushed himself faster to cut them off. The cloaked runner tried to backtrack at his appearance but he reached out and grabbed them by the arm, swinging their back towards the wall as John jogged up to block any escape attempts. Sherlock pulled the hood down and frowned. 

Wrong.

“I didn’t steal nothing!” the pre-teen boy stated loudly.

Young but tall for his age. He’d arrived on the caravan but was nothing more than one of the homeless trying a new city. He was lying about not having stolen anything – there was the glint of a golden necklace from the boy’s pocket – but it was from one of the Manadavvi merchants’ wives who likely wouldn’t even notice it missing. Sherlock didn’t see much point in forcing him to give it back. Besides, his speed could come in handy if he joined the current network of children.

Sherlock released his arm and took a step back. “If you’re smart, you’ll listen to me. Go find one of the children by the bakeries,” he said. “They’ll give you shelter and teach you to be less obvious next time.”

The boy stared at him wide-eyed for a second before darting off (in the direction of the bakeries, he noted with some satisfaction).

“Sherlock, what just happened?”

Ah, John. “A mistake. But one that led to proving I was right about something else.”

“And what’s that?”

“Your leg.”

John looked down and Sherlock saw the moment comprehension set in because a smile stretched the man’s face and a laugh broke through the air. A matching smile lit his own face and he found himself chuckling in response. The last time he’d had a reason to laugh was a year ago when Mycroft had stumbled into one of his experiments which resulted in the Archangel going around with pink-blotched wings until all of the feathers naturally moulted.

“Unbelievable,” John said breathlessly. “We just ran across the city chasing what we thought to be the murderer only to find it was nothing more than an amateur thief.”

“Mm. The murderer is still out there though and was watching us – the note was fair proof of that. I suspect he took advantage of catching an inexperienced pickpocket in the act and startled him to send us on a chase.”

“So what now?”

The killer was trying to single him out specifically and was no doubt observing them even now. He had to get John out of the picture; it was the only way he would draw the man out and get a chance to speak with him.

“We get you to an inn,” Sherlock replied, starting off towards one of the main roads. He noticed John automatically fall into step beside him without question, like he was meant to be there. “I know one that owes me a favour.”

\---

John walked beside Sherlock down the streets of Velora, still feeling a little giddy from the chase and the fact that his leg was fine again. Being around the angel was proving to never involve a dull moment.

“But what about the killer? You’re just going to leave him out there?” he asked.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but his attention shifted down the road. Following his gaze, John spotted Lestrade approaching them with Donovan and a man following close behind.

“Sherlock, any news?” Lestrade glanced at John, his expression turning puzzled. “Didn’t we see you back in Luminaux? What’s he doing here?”

“He decided to take in the sights of Velora,” Sherlock answered.

Donovan watched John with a frown, the criticism glaringly obvious in her eyes that he’d failed to follow her advice. John stared back at her calmly until she looked away with a roll of her eyes. He intended to form his own opinion on Sherlock rather than glean it from someone who seemed obviously biased.

“And the case?” asked Lestrade. Sherlock’s acceptance of John’s presence was apparently enough validation for him.

“He’s here,” Sherlock replied, “but I haven’t found him yet.”

“I don’t know why we’re just waiting for him to find the killer when for all we know, he’s already gone and poisoned some other victim,” the unfamiliar man said, annoyed.

“Anderson, do shut up. Your statements offer nothing to progress the situation and if anything had happened, I would have heard word of it by now.”

So that was Anderson. If this was how they always interacted, John could see why Sherlock hadn’t wanted to work with him. But he couldn’t really blame the other man either, since the angel’s insults were likely a regular occurrence.

Lestrade cut in with outstretched hands. “Give it a rest, guys. Anderson, Donovan – go grab the others. Spread out, ask questions, find out if anyone has seen anything suspicious. Sherlock, you tell me how you know our guy’s here.”

The others walked off to find their colleagues and Sherlock waited until they were out of earshot before saying, “He left a note. It was addressed to me. Given that he knows I’m here, I doubt he’ll be doing anything obvious enough for your people to detect him. I suggest you continue to leave it to me and wait for my word.”

“Sherlock, we’re not just going to stand around and do nothing if we know he’s in the city.”

“Then do what you like but keep your little helpers from interfering with my work. Come along, John,” Sherlock said, starting down the road again.

“Where are you going?” Lestrade shouted.

“I promised John I’d show him to an inn. With the sun down and a new caravan in town I’d hate for him to miss out on a room due to our delay.”

Lestrade sighed, staring at Sherlock’s retreating back. “Why does he always do that? Just leave like that?”

The questions seemed half-rhetorical and half-genuine. “You know him better than I do,” John replied. 

“I’ve known him for five years and no, I don’t.”

“Then why do you put up with him?”

The Inspector paused for a moment in thought. “Because I’m desperate,” he finally said helplessly. “We need him and Sherlock’s good at what he does – he’s a great man. I just hope that someday, he might even be a good one.” With a nod at John, Lestrade turned to head back to his team.

John watched him walk away before running to catch up with Sherlock whose long legs had already taken him halfway down the street. He glanced sideways, considering the angel beside him. Sherlock was still very much a mystery. He was brilliant without a doubt and seemed to care little for interpersonal relations, having no qualms in pushing people away, and yet he didn’t seem to mind John. He wasn’t sure if that was just out of some of obligation to Jovah, or if Sherlock actually liked him as a person.

“Trying to deduce me, John? Find out what makes me tick?”

“A little hard considering we’ve only known each other for a few hours.”

“More than enough time.”

John smirked. “For you, maybe.”

A brief smile ghosted over Sherlock’s lips and he stopped in front of a small inn, opening the door and gesturing for John to step inside.

The inn was cozy and John watched as Sherlock talked with the owner who seemed ecstatic to see the angel again. It wasn’t long before he was set up with one of the rooms at a greatly reduced rate. He inspected the room with satisfaction before turning to Sherlock who was glancing around as well.

“What did you do for him?”

“I cleared his name of being involved with another inn down the road that burned down two years ago. He wasn’t even in the city at the time,” Sherlock said. “You’ll want to be aware of a draft from that window there. It seems it was knocked out of its frame last month after a drunken altercation and wasn’t fixed entirely properly.”

John was about to ask for the full explanation of how he knew that when someone knocked on the door. Sherlock opened it and the innkeeper was standing there with John’s cane in his hands.

“Sorry if I interrupted,” he said. “Someone just dropped this off. Said you left it at the restaurant and that he saw you come in here.”

“Oh, thank you,” John said, moving to grab the cane. Nodding, the innkeeper retreated back down the stairs. He hefted it in his hands with a short laugh and leaned the cane against the bedside dresser, turning to see Sherlock staring down the hallway with narrowed eyes. “Sherlock?”

“I need to tell Lestrade something. I’ll be back shortly,” Sherlock said distractedly, closing the door behind him.

Fifteen minutes later, John had gone downstairs to grab a bowl of stew from the in-house pub before it closed when Lestrade walked in. “There you are, I’ve been checking all of the inns. Where’s Sherlock? My team found a few odd tidbits but I wanted to run them by him to see if any were related to the case.”

John stared at the angel, feeling a chill wash over him. “He went to find you.” Sherlock would have found Lestrade easily so where had he… John cursed loudly and jumped out of his seat. “Lestrade, get your team out looking for Sherlock now, he may be in danger.”

“What? What happened?”

“That idiot went after the murderer by himself!” John ran out of the inn and onto the dimly lit streets of Velora, hoping his instincts would guide him.

\---

Stupid.

It seems he was more distracted by John’s arrival than he’d thought to miss something so obvious. He’d even deduced the man out loud and hadn’t connected the facts. Sherlock followed the figure casually walking down various roads until they reached an alleyway of buildings under renovation.

“Caught me then, have you?” Rian asked, facing him in the moonlight.

“It would seem so.” Sherlock approached slowly until he stood a few feet away. “You arrived early.”

“I split off from the caravan on horseback. Thought it might throw you off a bit.”

“You were lucky, it won’t happen again.”

“Want to know how I did it then?” He pulled his hands out of his pockets and opened them to show two small balls of herbs sitting on his palms. “Identical in appearance and smell, but you know what the difference is.”

“Lucifer Root is poisonous.”

Rian made a noise of approval then began to pace before him. “I played a little game. I found people who were mostly solitary creatures – I’m good at being their friend – and told them to pick one, promised them that one would bring them closer to Jovah than even the angels. They all agreed, because they were suffering. If they chose wrong and failed to have their moment to touch the face of god, death was an acceptable alternative.”

Angel’s Breath was a mild hallucinogen and would certainly make a person feel “closer to Jovah” but there was something wrong about all of this. It didn’t make any sense giving the victims a chance and to have them all die… statistically, the possibility was very small. And why risk having someone know your face after threatening them with death as an option? The only way to guarantee an outcome would be – ah.

“There is no choice, they’re both the same,” Sherlock said. “How dull.”

The uneasy silence from the other man confirmed that he was right.

“I was warned that you were clever,” Rian finally noted, tossing the herbs from one hand to another. “I was supposed to ask you to play.”

Sherlock found himself laughing at that, startling the waiter. What reason would he have to play? Knowing the truth, he had no romantic notions about Jovah and had no desire to die. And whoever was providing this foolish man – no, he was still only a boy – with instructions knew that too. “Indulge me for a moment – what reason would you have to go about killing people across the cities?”

“I have a sponsor. Being a waiter isn’t the most profitable job— I get a good portion of gold for each person I kill. Killing people point blank is boring and obvious so I thought I’d make things more interesting.”

“Ah yes, and it’s all to go to your mother,” Sherlock said, eyes sharp as he read the man a second time, sauntering closer. “She’s dying and you’re desperate for her to be proud of you before she’s gone because she resented you after the death of your father. You hope to buy her love. As for your sponsor, I’m afraid they set you up this time. Who are they? An angel from a hold?” 

There was the tightening of a jaw and aversion of eyes. 

“So I am right. They’re near Semorrah, aren’t they?”

There was nothing but silence from the boy before him, who seemed to realize he’d given up too much information. Commendable, but irritating. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and circled closer at a steady pace, slowly manoeuvring Rian towards the wall. “I can make you talk.”

“You? I doubt that,” he scoffed.

Sherlock abruptly reached out and grabbed Rian’s arms, twisting them behind his back as he shoved him face-first against the wall. “I can make you talk,” he repeated darkly. “Your sponsor, give me a name.”

“No.”

By now, it was likely that John and Lestrade were out looking for him. He didn’t have time for this. Sherlock grasped a single finger and twisted it backward. He had to give Rian credit for not screaming at the snap, a choked gasp muffled against the wall.

“A name. Your sponsor betrayed you and fully expected you to fail anyway.”

“Betrayed me? He wouldn’t...”

Sherlock could feel the seconds pushing in on them until someone would interrupt. Impatient, a second finger quickly followed the first and Rian cried out softly, half-sobbing now. 

“They knew your approach wouldn’t work with me,” Sherlock continued and his hand curled around a third finger. “Give me a name!” 

“Moriarty!” As soon as the name left his mouth, Rian looked terrified.

Sherlock tilted his head, intrigued. “Moriarty?”

His hold relaxed and Rian pushed away hard, putting several feet between them. He cradled his hand for a moment, chest heaving. Scrabbling at the bag on his back with his uninjured hand, Rian pulled out a thin metal stick and aimed it at Sherlock.

Sherlock felt the adrenaline rush through his system, felt the danger level of the situation rise, and it thrilled him. He recognized the device from several of the old volumes he’d read at Mount Sinai – they’d called it a _gun_. But that technology had been absent from the world for centuries so how had this human gotten his hands on such a destructive artifact? It was likely his sponsor had provided it to him, but that only raised more questions— where did this Moriarty get them from? 

Sherlock raised his hands instinctively and took a measured step backwards. Rian was panicking and injured, a cornered animal, desperate and unpredictable.

“You can’t know that name. I have to get rid of you,” he babbled, hands dangerously unsteady on the weapon.

“Rian-“

“I have to get rid of you,” he repeated. The fingers around the butt of the gun tightened. 

Before he could pull the trigger, a figure dropped from the balcony overhead and tackled Rian to the ground.

\---

John raced through the streets following some internal pull and the basic logic that the pair likely wasn’t in an area with people around. He cut into the side streets and headed down the ones that were quiet, turning away from any groups of people that appeared in his path. Lestrade and his team were searching as well, but John wasn’t going to wait around.

By the time he ventured into an area of the city under construction, John was gasping for breath and resolved to get back into shape now that his leg was fine. Perhaps it was some divine direction by Jovah that led him there—as he turned a dark corner, he heard the unmistakable deep rumble of Sherlock’s voice echoing across the walls, too low to make out the words. Slowing to a walk, John crept down the road and peered around the corner.

There, he could see a few white feathers from the next alley over.

John paused to scan the surroundings. He couldn’t just barge in there and risk getting Sherlock injured. Spotting a stairway curving around one of the buildings to a balcony located just above the pair, he stole across the gap and hurried up the steps, keeping himself low and out of sight.

“You can’t know that name. I have to get rid of you.”

The tone of voice struck something in John and he raised his head over the balcony edge. Rian was holding something in Sherlock’s direction and the sight of it made John’s blood run cold. He knew what that was. He’d seen it before.

“I have to get rid of you.”

Sherlock was going to get shot if he didn’t do something.

John flung himself over the balcony and crashed into the waiter, mentally noting where he was guaranteed to find bruises later. The gun skittered across the ground and the two of them scrambled for it, their hands reaching the cold metal at the same time in a brief struggle. A blast rang through the alleyway leaving a deafening silence in its wake.

“John?” The voice was tinny but he could still recognize an urgent edge to the question. Hands pulled at him and he felt a breath rush across his forehead in what he guessed was a sigh of relief. “John,” the voice said again, calmer, “put the gun down.”

John looked down at his hands still gripping the gun and tossed it to the ground, eyes drifting over the dead man at their feet. He stood and rubbed at his right arm that had impacted the ground in his fall – below the bruise, his Kiss burned.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You have just killed a man.”

“I have, haven’t I?” He supposed he should feel some horror at taking a life but all John could muster up was an odd sense of satisfaction that he’d protected someone. Protected Sherlock. He’d gotten rid of someone who’d killed three innocent people. He was useful again. A wry smile touched his lips. “But he wasn’t a very nice man.”

Sherlock stared at him then smiled faintly in return. “No, he wasn’t, was he?”

“What are we going to tell Lestrade?”

What they told Lestrade, whose team showed up minutes later after following the sound of the gunshot, was that the murderer had accidentally shot himself after John had struggled to take the weapon away. Lestrade was more interested in the gun itself, having never seen one before, and Sherlock suggested they take it away to the archives. After giving a summary of how the killer had poisoned the victims, they were free to go.

They walked back to the inn where Sherlock murmured to himself, “Moriarty.”

“What’s Moriarty?”

“Something of interest.” The angel nodded at him and headed off toward the entrance of town. “Have a good night, John.”

John almost called out for him to wait, to stay, to talk— but he reasoned they would have plenty of time for that later. For now, he would get the first good night’s sleep he’d had in a long time, knowing he’d saved one person’s life. A person who had already changed his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always thanks to my lovely beta, hsuany. <3


End file.
